


They Don't Love You Like I Love You

by hopeintheashes



Series: Maps [2]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: History of abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Sick!Reid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2019-10-07 11:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17364812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeintheashes/pseuds/hopeintheashes
Summary: Post-Amplification. Reid's sick, again, and Morgan's trying to keep everything under control.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to [Maps.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16145213) I don't usually post works in progress, but I've made an exception in this case. Stay tuned for more.

He comes home from the hospital cold. Morgan walks him out the automatic doors with one hand at his elbow and the other on his shoulder, draped across his back, and Reid doesn’t shake him off.

Reid goes back to his own house, because that’s what he wants. Of course that’s what he wants. Derek would want it too, to be in his own bed and his own house and to have peace and quiet after the endless beeping machines and revolving door of medical staff and visitors. He just can’t stand being too far away to keep watch.

. . .

Reid’s back at work far too soon. Morgan can’t believe the doctors cleared him. He’s still got this cough— dry, like a nervous habit; like the poison is still in his lungs. It’s fraying Morgan’s nerves.

They’re not on a case, so it’s coffee and computer work, and a tension headache that’s making its way up the back of Morgan’s neck. He can’t focus on the documents in front of him, so he finds himself in a loop: stare down the back of Reid’s head across the way, watch Reid’s shoulders shake, feel like his own head’s going to explode. Drink his coffee, try to read, give up, go for a piss. More coffee, more staring, more daggers at the base of his skull. Finally, he gives up and heads for Penelope’s lair.

Garcia’s leaned back and twirling in her office chair, eyes to the ceiling, feathered pen in her hand, muttering under her breath, trying to solve some puzzle that Morgan can’t see.

“Hey, Penelope.” It’s so easy to turn on the self-assuredness and charm.

She comes back to the present and stops the spin of her chair, swaying a little bit in the aftermath. “You!”

He grins. “Me.”

She points the pen at him accusingly, bright pink feather trembling in the air. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” He goes for mock indignance, but it doesn’t quite land.

“Yes. You. What’s wrong with you.” She stands up, eyes narrow with suspicion, and just about falls over in her neon-yellow heels.

He grabs her elbow. “Well, baby girl, I seem to be doing better than you.”

“Hush.” She crosses her arms and squints at him some more. Then, decisively: “It’s Reid.”

“What’s Reid?” Maintaining his innocence.

Garcia ignores him. “He’s back, and you’re worried, and you’ve had way too much coffee today…” She’s sliding in close, nearly pressed against his chest, hands on his shoulders, at the base of his neck. “And you are freaking out, silently, because that’s what you do…” Her fingers working at a knot, harder than Derek feels is strictly necessary.

“Jesus— oww!” She’s found the pressure point, and pushes to the limit, and— “Oh. Holy shit.” The knot gives way, and a good part of the headache with it. “Penelope Garcia, I think I love you.”

“Try that again.” She’s smirking.

He laughs. “Penelope Garcia, I _know_ I love you.”

“Goddamn right you do.” She grins, then snaps back to business. “So. Movie night at your place. On…” She pulls up CCTV footage of the bullpen. Turns the camera to focus on Reid, who’s slumped in his seat. JJ’s got a hand on his back, talking to him, in close. After a moment, he nods, resigned, and starts packing up to go. “Friday. He should be up for it by then, right?”

Morgan’s looking at her, eyebrows quirked in half-serious concern. “You spying on us, mama?”

“Only when I need my fix of your gorgeous face.” She goes up on her toes to brush a kiss to his cheek, then shoos him toward the door. “Go. Be free. No more coffee. Friday!” she calls after him. “Don’t forget.”

. . .

Reid makes it through the full day of work on Friday, but by the time they’re ready to leave, he’s starting to fade.

“You sure you want to do this, kid?” Quiet, on their way to the elevators.

“Yeah!” Reid’s voice breaks, and he coughs. “Yeah, I’m good.” Coughs some more. Morgan frowns. It’s sounding less like the echo of infection and more like something real.

Penelope rushes into the elevator with them and brandishes a DVD case with a flourish. “Classic ’50s horror anthology. You’re welcome.”

Morgan raises his eyebrows. “You’re a little late for Halloween. Or way too early. One of the two.”

“Pssh. As if this amazingness could ever be contained to a single holiday.” She presses on, single-handedly carrying the conversation from the elevator to the car to the highway. He smiles. It’s easy to let her talk. She radiates goodness, and happiness, and light, and everything else that’s missing from their work. He glances to the backseat, and his smile fades. Reid’s leaned up against the window, half-asleep, his jacket draped over him like a blanket. Morgan’s starting to feel guilty about letting him come.

Garcia catches him looking and squeezes his hand. Keeps her voice low. “He’s fine. He’s safe, we’re all safe, let’s go watch a movie, yeah?”

_Yeah._

Reid stretches when they arrive like the nap was refreshing, and conquers the stairs to Morgan’s walkup without getting any more out of breath than Garcia does in her tight dress and high heels, and Morgan starts to relax. Garcia had called for pizza from the road, and it arrives before they’ve even finished taking off their shoes. They eat at the table, and it’s laughter and light and warmth, and Morgan almost forgets to be worried.

Garcia slips away to change into her pajamas (fuzzy and pink and perfectly _her_ ) and lovingly berates Reid for forgetting to bring his. “I reminded you, like, five times!”

Reid shrugs helplessly. “It’s fine, Garcia, I’m okay in my work clothes.”

“No, but this is _movie night_ , with the pizza and the pjs and the popcorn—” Garcia’s tone is playful, but there’s an undercurrent of worry bordering on desperation. Morgan knows that the cases they work on hit her hardest of all, and that the only way she can make it through is with rituals like this that keep the dark at bay.

He presses a kiss to her forehead on his way by. “Penelope, I got this.” He closes the door to his bedroom and sheds his work clothes. Exhales. Finds sweats and a soft t-shirt for himself, and another set for Reid, long-sleeved this time because the kid’s always cold. They’ll be too big for him, but that’s okay. More than okay. He blinks at the thought. Paces the room once, then splashes water on his face in the en-suite bathroom. Now is not the fucking time.

Reid disappears into the hallway bathroom and comes out dressed in Derek’s clothes. Penelope giggles in delight, and Reid rolls his eyes. Derek stays carefully nonchalant. Hands Penelope the remote.

Reid’s curled in one corner of the oversize couch and Garcia’s tucked into the other, knees pulled up to her chin with Derek’s fluffiest blanket pulled around her. He grabs the other blanket, not as fluffy but comfortably heavy and warm, and drapes it at his side, ready for Reid when he wants it. Takes his place in the middle, feet on the coffee table.

“Ready?” asks Garcia, remote already hovering in the air.

“Go for it,” he tells her, and Reid nods.

The film is campy and ridiculous and he’d like to make fun of the monsters but he keeps getting pulled into the story, and by the third jump scare Garcia’s pressed against his side. He’s got one arm around her shoulder and the other stretched out along the back of the couch. Reid’s still curled in the corner, his long hair inches from Morgan’s hand.

They watch two more films off the compilation DVD and eat big bowls of popcorn and drink beer (Derek) and wine (Penelope) and ginger ale (Reid), and it’s everything a movie night is supposed to be, like nothing ever happened, like everybody’s fine. Somewhere in the second film Morgan realizes that Reid’s asleep. Covers him with the blanket. Reid blinks up at him, sleepy and confused, and Derek lets his hand drop onto his shoulder, anchoring the blanket, the sweep of his thumb keeping time on Reid’s upper arm until he drops back off again.

. . .

 _“You two.”_ Whispered and fond. Penelope’s hand on his. _“Sleeping through movie night. How dare you.”_ He opens his eyes to her grin.

“Wasn’t asleep.” He breathes deep, and stretches. He had been. Hadn’t meant to be. Everything’s pleasantly warm and dim.

Garcia’s already on her feet, and Derek stands up too, gently, so as not to disturb Reid.

“I’ve got brunch in the morning. Full-moon gathering of the technical witches of the FBI. Who are all, by the way, as smoking hot as me.”

“Yeah?” He yawns. “And how come you’ve never introduced me to these fine ladies?”

She laughs. “Oh, they’re far too good for you.”

“My loss.” He walks her to the door. She’s still in her pjs and slippers, work clothes in her bag and yellow heels dangling from her free hand. “This Uber driver’s not gonna know what hit him.”

“They never do.” She presses a kiss to his cheek and he does the same in return, drawing her in for a tight one-armed hug.

Morgan sees her out the door, and moves around the apartment cleaning up, getting ready for bed. It’s not midnight yet, but Reid’s still asleep, so he might as well. He brings back a glass of water and puts it on the coffee table for Reid when he wakes up, then settles back into the couch, into the corner where Garcia had been, and starts scrolling through his Netflix queue. Settles on Anthony Bourdain. Keeps the volume down low.

He’s wrapped up in the episode when Reid stirs and sits up, the blanket falling to his lap. His hair is a mess and his cheeks are flush with sleep, and something about seeing him in his borrowed clothes makes Derek’s possessive streak burst right the fuck out of his heart.

“Where’s Garcia?” Reid’s voice is rough from disuse. He grimaces and takes a sip of the water.

“Left a little bit ago. Want me to call you a cab?” It seems ungentlemanly not to offer, no matter what he hopes the answer will be.

Reid shakes his head, still a little unsteady.

“Or you can stay here.” He keeps his voice neutral. “Go back to sleep.”

“Yeah.” Reid’s so un-Reid-like in this state. Open and unguarded. “Yes. That one. Just gotta…” He gestures vaguely in the direction of the bathroom and stumbles off to pee.

Morgan laughs, a little, and settles back into the corner of the couch where Penelope had been, one arm draped over the armrest and the other across the back of the couch. He’s letting himself drift, but everything slides into sharper focus when he hears coughing from the bathroom, deep in Reid’s chest in a way that ramps up his adrenaline.

Reid comes back looking tired but otherwise fine, and Derek forces himself to pretend he hadn’t heard. Reid looks around vaguely, and Derek pulls a pillow in close to his knee, wordlessly inviting him to lay down with his head almost in Derek’s lap.

Derek turns up the volume on the tv a few notches and Reid stretches out beside him. Pulls the blanket over himself. Keeps an intermittent running commentary, stopping every now and then to cough into the blanket. When his voice fades and his eyes unfocus from the screen, Derek drops his hand into Reid’s hair and works his fingers through the loose waves. When Reid’s breathing evens out, he lets his hand rest there. Frowns. Moves his palm to Reid’s forehead. “Hey.” Soft, but insistent, trying to pull Reid back to the surface. “Are you warmer than me?”

Reid shrugs tiredly, and doesn’t open his eyes.

“You don’t get to be warmer than me.” There’s a joke in there about their relative hotness, but it’s snuffed out by his growing concern before it can really take shape.

Reid shivers, once, against his hand. It makes Derek’s blood run cold.

“C’mon, kid, talk to me. You sick again?”

A groan that might have been _“Dunno.”_ A rush of frustration (their literal job is to observe and conclude; how could you not _know?_ ) and then JJ’s voice in his head, after the first/last terrible thing that happened to the kid: _He’s not wired the same as you or me. The signals get… corrupted. Sometimes he just really doesn’t know._

Reid, again, from behind closed eyes: “Can I just sleep?”  
  
Morgan looks him over, tight and careful, and then relents. At this time of night, the options are stay here or brave the ER, and as nervous as he is, that’s not something he’s ready to subject either of them to over a low-grade maybe-fever. “Yeah. I got you. Go to sleep.”

He can’t follow the show anymore, just lets it wash over him and listens to Reid breathe, fingers still playing through his hair. There’s a rasp in there, but it’s not bad, not like it was. He can’t stop the flash of Reid, slamming the plate glass door and scrabbling for the lock, hair falling in his face, eyes wide and voice straining with forced calm. Reid, dripping wet in the decontamination tent, Converse laces loose and white against the tight blackness of his shoes-pants-shirt-despair. Reid, (Dr. Kimura had said, her words pulling the breath from Derek’s lungs), best and last faculty gone: aphasia in the ambulance, soaked with sweat, blood on his lips and terror in his eyes. Morgan, pacing, powerless; Reid, untouchable, within arm’s reach and so goddamn far away.

Now that he’s got his hands on Reid, he’s not going to let him go.

He does, eventually: gets up and goes to the bathroom; brings back the digital thermometer from the cabinet, hidden in the back, last used who knows when. He wishes it were one of those forehead ones, something where he wouldn’t have to wake Reid up. He’s not going to get any sleep if he doesn’t know, though, so he turns off the tv and lets the sudden silence pull Reid toward consciousness, then gently shakes him the rest of the way.

“Hey. Sleeping Beauty.” Soft, said with a smile, but Reid’s forehead still scrunches up like it’s making his head ache. “Sorry to do this to you, but…”

Reid takes the thermometer and puts it under his own tongue. He closes his eyes and doesn’t open them at the beep, just blindly holds it out in offering. Morgan takes it. “100.5,” he reads aloud. “Well, that’s not _not_ a fever.”

“’S fine.” Slurred around a slow-moving tongue.

Derek resists the urge to pace. “Guest bed?”

“Mm.” He’s already slipping back into sleep.

“Right there?” He can’t help but grin, in spite of everything.

“Mm.” Something like a nod.

“Okay.” He stands there for a minute, feeling like he should do something, but there’s nothing to be done. Fuck, he’s bad at doing nothing.

He leaves the light in the hallway bathroom on and turns off the rest. Goes into his own room and turns off his light as well, and lays awake staring at his ceiling in the dark.

. . .

Reid’s sitting at the kitchen table when Derek comes out of his room in the morning, back in his work clothes, fingers wrapped around a mug of tea, tissues balled in one hand.

Derek looks him up and down, incredulous. “What are you… doing?”

Reid’s voice is hoarse and his consonants are destroyed. “Drigking tea?”

Derek gestures helplessly. “Why are you dressed?”

“Were you hoping for something different?” The insinuation is bolder than Derek would’ve expected. He blinks, and recovers.

“I was _hoping_ you’d still be asleep, but barring that, pajamas and blankets and all that shit are kind of the done thing when you’re sick.” _When you’re not even three weeks out from having nearly died. When my fucking heart can’t take this anymore._

Reid shrugs off his concern. “It’s just a cold.”

“Okay, but how the fuck did you get sick again when you’re on all those meds?”

“They’re antibiotics.” He wipes his nose with his used tissues and Derek hands him the box of new ones without breaking his gaze. “Rhinovirus.” Like it’s obvious. “It’s in the name.”

He’s right, of course he’s right, but it’s only fueling the anxiety-turned-anger in Derek’s chest. “Opportunistic infection.”

“Yeah.”

“So shouldn’t you be just a _little_ more concerned?” Ramping up again.

“Derek.” Reid meets his eyes. “I have been the patient for weeks now. Just let me have one day where I’m not.”

Derek squeezes his hands into fists, pulls every muscle tight, and then deliberately lets go. It doesn’t help. Reid’s sitting there pale and congested and coughing into his tea and this kid almost fucking died on his watch, so no, Spencer, he’s not going to back off.

He does, because he’s a goddamn profiler and he knows when he’s pushing too far. Deep breath. Exhale. “Compromise.”

Reid raises his eyebrows at him.

“You let me keep an eye on you— here, your place, wherever, I don’t care—” Reid starts to protest, but Morgan cuts him off, “—and I don’t say a goddamn word about it unless things start getting bad.”

Reid eyes him, and then nods. “Fine.” 

. . .

 


	2. Chapter 2

They do end up at Reid’s, eventually, once the dregs of the tea have gone cold and the meds have started to kick in and Reid is fidgeting at the kitchen table. Searching. He needs his books, his research, something to occupy his brain.   
  
“Your place?” Derek asks. He gets a vague nod in return, and packs in five. Throws in everything from his medicine cabinet that he thinks might possibly be useful. Pauses in the doorway of the kitchen, watching.   
  
Reid’s always pale, but it’s not always terrifying. Didn't used to be, anyway. He tries to reason with himself: he knows what Reid looks like when he hasn’t slept in days; when he’s drowning under the weight of addiction and loss; when he’s so sick he might actually fucking die. This isn't that. Not even close. _Yet,_ his brain tries to whisper, and he suffocates the thought. Exhales, carefully. Smiles. “You ready, pretty boy?”   
  
It’s intentionally ironic, with Reid’s nose running down his lip and his skin starting to chap, but it’s also as true as it’s ever been. He’ll put his heart on his sleeve, but never lay it bare, the truth wrapped in layers of plausible deniability and cotton wool. Waiting for a sign. _Reid doesn’t do subtle,_ Garcia had told him once, both of them half-drunk and tangled up together on Derek’s living room couch. _If you want to make a move, make a move._ His face had gone stony and she’d sighed and changed the subject, and he’d had a panic attack in the shower that night after she’d left. There are wounds like coals buried deep under his skin, and the idea that he might somehow take advantage of Reid’s trust in him makes the trauma flare, searing his nerves and his heart and his lungs.   
  
Reid takes the irony at face value and rolls his eyes, blows his nose, washes his hands, puts on his shoes. In the car, he keeps a running commentary on the history of each neighborhood they pass. It's easy to pretend that nothing's wrong.   
  
As soon as they get to his apartment, Reid buries himself in a stack of books. The desire to order him to bed is almost a physical need, but Derek bites his tongue and keeps his promise, and puts the kettle on to boil. Three cups of tea later, Reid’s breathing is even and he’s writing furiously on a legal pad. Derek can’t read, or pace, or stare out the window anymore. He stands abruptly. Grabs his bag. Emerges from the bathroom in workout clothes. “I’m going for a run.”   
  
Spencer blinks up at him like he'd forgotten he was there. “Okay. Have fun.”   
  
Derek can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t violate his _not a goddamn word_ mandate, so he just nods and ties his shoes.   
  
Running in Spencer’s neighborhood is a nice distraction. New people, new stores, new streets. He gets himself lost and finds his way back an hour later. At the last minute, he decides to stop at the corner deli to pick up lunch.   
  
Reid’s not writing when he comes back in.   
  
“Hey.” He sets down the paper bag from the deli on the counter. The plastic containers of soup inside have a satisfying weight.   
  
Reid’s forehead is scrunched like he has a headache, and he doesn’t reply.   
  
“You good?” The question’s out there before he remembers his promise, and he gets a glower in return. He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Strike the question from the record.” Tries again. “You want lunch?”   
  
Reid coughs, and pushes his hair out of his eyes, and stands, just a little unsteady on his feet.   
  
“That’s a yes?”   
  
“Yes.” He’s nodding, but his eyes are closed and his eyebrows are still drawn. “Please.”   
  
“Okay.” He keeps his tone light. “We’ve got soup, sandwiches, some pickled shit the old guy behind the counter threw in; I don’t even know what vegetables they used to be….” He keeps talking, and Reid sits down, and they eat. He's got eyes on Spencer like a hawk, clocking the way he winces with each swallow of soup. The way he doesn't even reach for the sandwich. The way his eyes never open past half-mast.   
  
He's not as good as Garcia at carrying a conversation alone. He lapses into silence and watches Spencer's hands shake. Fights with himself. Gives in. "Reid—"   
  
Spencer abruptly pushes back from the table and stumbles out of the kitchen. Derek finds him in the bedroom, silhouetted in the midday light.   
  
"Go away."   
  
Derek takes a breath. Lets it out. Pitches his voice light, like everything's gonna be fine. "No can do, kid." He comes around, fingers brushing Spencer's back, hip, arm, hand. His skin hums at the touch.   
  
Reid sinks into the bed. _"Fuck."_ Whispered and angry and defeated and scared. "Morgan, I can't do this again."   
  
Derek kneels in front of him. Gets in his line of sight. "It's not going to be like before." He doesn't know what the fuck it is going to be like. Makes the promise anyway. Holds him steady with a hand at his jaw. Fever-warm. Sweat under his fingertips. "I'm going to call Dr. Kimura."   
  
When Reid turns away, there are tears in his eyes. Derek forces himself to his feet. To the kitchen, where the number's stuck to the fridge, next to the landline. Dials his cell. While it's ringing, he takes the coiled phone cord between his fingers. Tangible nostalgia: it feels like childhood, a million years ago.   
  
"This is Dr. Kimura."   
  
Back to the present: symptoms, timelines, medications, vitals.   
  
"Okay, come through the Emergency Room and we'll work on getting him admitted. Just to be safe."   
  
"No."   
  
A split second of silence, like she's blinking in surprise. "I'm sorry?"   
  
"No, I'm... I'm sorry." He grinds the heel of his hand into his forehead. "Just. Aren't there any other options?"   
  
"Agent Morgan, given the severity of his recent infection, I really have to recommend—"   
  
"Exposing an immunocompromised person to the germs in an ER?" Forceful. A cover for what he really wants to say: _He's scared. Don't make me make him scared._   
  
"There are risks, but those are far outweighed by the benefits of him receiving medical care now, rather than waiting and hoping this resolves."   
  
"Please."   
  
Dr. Kimura is quiet for a while, then says, reluctantly, "I know someone who does concierge medicine— home visits— someone I trust. He could do a preliminary assessment, and then we could make a decision about admitting versus not. I have to tell you, it's an option that's not cheap..."   
  
"Done." He'll pay. He doesn't even ask for a ballpark. "What's his number?"   
  
She sighs, like this is all going against her better judgment, and reads it out. "Give me ten. I want to fill him in before you call."   
  
He nods like she can see him and disconnects. Leans his forehead against the rivers of the texture of the fridge. Untangles the phone cord that he's got wrapped around his fingers like a lifeline from a ship at sea.   
  
Reid's curled in on himself like the anxiety is ramping up, fucking with his breathing, ragged and fast. Derek eases himself to the floor so that he can get back in Reid's line of sight. Brushes Reid's hair out of his eyes. "No hospital. At least not right now. We've got someone coming to check on you here."   
  
_"Thank you."_ Whispered and raw.   
  
He leans his head back against the nightstand, there on the floor of Spencer's room with the sun streaming in, incongruous, and counts down the minutes until he can make the call.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments! <3

The doctor, when he arrives, seems impossibly young. Derek wants to grill him on his credentials, but he bites back the impulse. Dr. Kimura vouched for him. That has to be enough. He leads the guy into Reid's bedroom, where Reid is sitting up against the headboard, trying to look put-together and failing.

"Dr. Reid, I'm Dr. Forsyth. Caleb."

"Spencer," Reid rasps.

Dr. Forsyth turns to Morgan. "Would you give us a minute?"

Derek looks at Reid, questioning, and Spencer nods in assent. It hits Derek like a punch to the chest. What, did he want to be begged to stay? A whisper of a thought coalesces between his ribs into a quick, hard mass that compresses his lungs: _Yes._ Yes, he wants Reid needy and hurting, seeking touch, seeking protection. Wants him curled up in the safety of Morgan's arms, breath quick and then slowing, Morgan's fingers in his hair. He wants that, all of that, without having to unguard his heart.

Reid and Dr. Forsyth are looking at him, waiting. The coals under his skin flicker, spark, threaten to ignite. He opens his mouth, and closes it again, and goes out to the living room. Shuts the door behind him. Listens to Reid cough through the wall. Paces, spiraling: shame and self-contempt. He's got his therapist's voice in his head, infuriatingly calm, coaching him through the mindfulness exercises he resented for working as well as they did. So: Feet. He's got socks on. Weight evenly distributed on the floor. He can feel the warp of the old boards under his toes. Ankles, knees, hips, letting everything fall into alignment. Spine. Diaphragm. Notice. Breathe. Chest, bruised and aching. Lungs, working too hard. In, hold, out, hold, repeat. Shoulders, tight. Neck. Head. Too many thoughts, everything heavy. Eyes, closed. Breathe. Listen. The hum of the fridge, and quiet voices through the door, and Reid coughing, still, but not as bad as before. Eyes open. Count the top shelf of books. See them, really see them, the texture of the vintage hardcovers and embossed lettering. Breathe in the smell of them, of pickles and bread and deli soup, of Reid. Okay? Okay.

He's still tense and guilty and anxious, but it doesn't feel like rage or panic anymore. He cleans up the kitchen, and waits.

"Mr. Morgan?"

It doesn't quite feel like his name, _Mister_ instead of _Agent,_ but the only case they're on today is _what the fuck is wrong with Reid,_ so he's willing to let it slide.

"Dr. Reid wanted me to ask you to come back in."

He nods, and follows the guy. Reid is sitting on top of the covers on his bed, feet on the floor, rubbing his chest. Derek wants to tell him to lie back down, but he knows it's not going to happen until Dr. Forsyth leaves.

"As I was just telling Dr. Reid— all signs point to this being a mild respiratory virus."

"So, what, just... a cold?" He knows he sounds like he thinks the guy is totally incompetent.

"Well, yes. However, in Dr. Reid's case, what is mild now could become serious quite quickly."

He braces for the word _hospital,_ but it doesn't come.

Dr. Forsyth turns back to Reid. "Rest; stay well-hydrated; eat what you can. Keep an eye on things but try not to worry. I'm leaving you with a pulse oximeter; it clips onto your finger like this—" He demonstrates on Reid, who doesn't pull away. Derek knows it's a holdover from the hospital, tolerance borne of necessity, but it's still weird to see Reid compliant like that. Letting himself be touched by a stranger. He swallows the beginnings of what might be jealousy. "If you're getting readings below 90%, call me. If the fever goes above 101, call me. If things just seem 'off'— call me." He holds up a hand as if to stop the thoughts that are already forming in Derek's mind. "If any of that happens, it doesn't mean it's time to panic, it just means it's time to check in. I live nearby; I can be here quickly." The guy may be young, but he's not too bad at being reassuring.

He follows Dr. Forsyth to the door, dazed. A hand on his shoulder. Dr. Forsyth, looking him sincerely in the eyes. "It's going to be okay."

He doesn't know what to say to that, just watches him go. Locks the door. Leans back against it and shakes his head.

. . .

Reid sleeps, and that's good. Derek paces the apartment. He stares at his phone, trying to decide who to text. Finally, he settles on JJ. She calls him back in an instant.

"Is he alright?" She's worried, but even-keeled.

He lets himself out of the apartment door, into the narrow hallway. "That's what the guy said. Shit, JJ, I don't know what to think."

"It's scary." She's matter-of-fact, and gentle, and there's a rush of tears behind his eyes. He squeezes his fists, and the feeling subsides.

"Yeah."

"Do you want me to come over?"

 _No—_ sudden and sharp, possessive and irrational. He breathes, and forces himself to think logically. "I think we're okay for now. No reason for you to bring home germs to the baby. I'll let you know if we need anything, okay?"

"Okay." A pause. "Hang in there. Tell Spence I say hi."

"I will."

He goes back inside and paces some more, and then realizes how tired he is, worn out from stress, from being on high alert. He sits down on Reid's couch. Runs his hand over the leather. Gives in, and lays down, and lets himself drift.

. . .

He's woken by an explosion he belatedly identifies as a sneeze, and sits up to find Spencer leaning in the doorway of his room. He surveys the scene and forces his heart and his breathing to slow.

"Sorry." Reid's voice is rough. "Didn't mean to wake you."

He shakes his head. "Nah, kid. You're fine." He rolls his shoulders. "JJ says hi."

Reid's brow furrows. "You called her?"

"She called me." Well, that's part of the truth.

"Oh."

Derek watches him for a minute, but he doesn't make a move to come out of the doorway. "C'mere." He pats the couch beside him. Reid hesitates, and rubs his nose, and sits. Carefully. Like he's afraid to let his guard down. Derek's heart twists. Maybe he's making things worse by being there. "Want some more soup?"

Reid shrugs. "No, but I should eat some anyway." He starts to stand up, but Derek waves him off.

"I'll get it. Stay put."

Spencer isn't always easy to read, but the internal fight between the rules of order (the kitchen is for eating; the living room is not) and his exhaustion is clear. Finally, he settles back and nods.

"Good," Derek murmurs. Runs a hand through Reid's hair on his way by. Reid doesn't pull away, but Derek's adrenaline still spikes when his conscious brain catches up with his instinct to touch. _Fuck._ He's got to get out of here. The idea of leaving feels like a panic attack. He's going to lose his fucking mind.

Reid doesn't have a microwave, so he pours some of the leftover soup into the smallest saucepan he can find. Turns the dial and watches the electric coils come on. They glow like a blacksmith's forge. He thinks about wiring. About electricity coursing through this old building. About fire. _Feel the floor, solid and cool. Shoulders over hips. Breathe, and breathe, and breathe._

Reid has sort of tipped sideways in his absence, not quite laying down but definitely not sitting up. "Hey." Gentle. Reid's staring off into the middle distance, and it's impossible to tell if he's thinking, or nearly asleep.

Reid shakes himself, and sits up, and shivers. Subtle, but enough to send Derek's mind flicking through the possibilities. He settles uneasily on the room not being particularly warm as the most likely explanation.

"Stop it."

"Stop— what?"

"You're thinking too loud." A knowing look, eyebrows raised; a clear imitation of Garcia, syntax and all. Derek laughs. Pulls the coffee table closer. Sets down the bowl and napkin and spoon. Drapes the afghan over Reid's shoulders, and ignores the eyeroll he gets in return. Focuses on the way Reid's shoulders come down with the added weight and warmth.

"Those of us without genius brains think loudly or not at all." He sits down on the couch next to him. Leans back and yawns, and drapes his arm across the backrest. "Eat your soup."

. . .

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end! Of the second work in this series, anyway. The first work is [Maps](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16145213), in case you missed it. The third and final work in the series, [Enough](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19324687), is available now. Thank you as always for the support! <3

. . .

The strangest thing, it turns out, is normalcy. Reid eats his soup, and goes through a dozen tissues as the steam does its work, and leans back against the couch. Starts talking to Derek mid-thought about their latest case. Makes a list of search terms to ask Garcia to plug in as soon as they get back to work on Monday.

"Hold on, no one said anything about going into work on Monday." Derek's trying to keep pace, to slow this all down.

"Why wouldn't I?" Reid's back in work mode, words spilling out. "I mean, I suppose I'll still be contagious, but at an acceptable level of risk given the general good health of our team. I'll have to be particularly careful around JJ to protect Henry, but I can take steps to mitigate—"

Derek's shaking his head. "Just— let's get through today, okay? And then tomorrow. And _then_ we'll worry about Monday."

"See?" Like a sprung trap. "No reason to worry. We've got plenty of time."

"You're gonna be the death of me, kid." Muttered under his breath, but he could've sworn it earned him a lip-twitch of a smile.

. . .

Reid keep working until he goes hoarse, slows down, burrows back into the couch. Derek covers him with two blankets and makes him put on the pulse oximeter. The number dips during a coughing fit, then bounces back to normal and stays there. The thermometer says 99.3 and holding. Derek wordlessly marks the numbers down in the record Dr. Forsyth told him to keep. Texts an update to the doctor. Waits tensely until he gets the reassurance that everything looks fine.

"After dinner," Reid says, which is weird because Derek had thought he was asleep, "you should go home." He talks over Derek's immediate protests. "You're bored, you're worried, it's not healthy or productive." He breaks off to cough.

"Healthy?" Derek raises an eyebrow with calculated drama. "I don't think you get to talk to me about healthy."

Reid takes a sputtering drink of water and regains his breath. "My point still stands. It doesn't make sense for you to sleep— or not sleep, as the case may be— on my couch when you have a perfectly nice bed at home."

Derek pushes down the thought of Reid appraising his bed. "Sense or no sense, it's what I'm going to do." He's seen how fast this kid can fall, and the thought of him alone, fragile and dangerously self-reliant, is too much to take.

"Even if I tell you to go?"

Derek looks him up and down carefully, trying to assess. "Someone should be here. It doesn't have to be me." He waits, and doesn't get a response. "If you truly don't want me here, I'll go."

Spencer looks away. "I didn't say that."

More silence, unresolving. Then—

"Compromise."

"Yeah?" Derek hadn't expected him to take the lead.

"Does the offer on the guest bed still stand?"

A wave of relief, warm in his veins. "Always, kid. Always."

. . .

The stack of books Reid brings with him is truly ridiculous, but Derek does not say a goddamn word about it, just caries them down the stairs to his car. He brings the leftover food, and the bag of medicine, and his own duffel, and ends up having to make two trips, the second hovering at Reid's elbow as he makes his way down the stairs.

Reid's quiet in the car as Derek gets ready to pull away from the curb. He pauses. Looks him in the eyes. "You sure you want to do this? I really don't mind the couch."

"I'm sure." He's been looking out the window, but glances at Derek sideways when he says, "There aren't any movies at my house."

Derek laughs out loud at that— the admission that Reid isn't actually as tech-phobic as he makes himself out to be— and turns on the radio, and drives.

. . .

He tries to let Reid pick the movie, since it was his idea and all, but the kid seems both overwhelmed by the number of choices and congested to the point of misery. Derek finds a documentary on global warming and raises his eyebrows at Reid, who nods. He knows he's in for an hour and a half of commentary on the hazards of science communication and how much nuance from the original studies is lost even when the filmmakers have the best intentions, but he doesn't mind a bit. Before they start, he does another round of vitals and cajoles Reid into taking not just painkillers but actual cold medicine, the stuff that's strong enough to knock you out and so brightly neon it probably glows in the dark. They'll have to wait to find out about the last bit, though, because the sun hasn't even gone down by the time Reid is out, curled up next to him on the couch under the same warm, heavy blanket as before. He pulls back from the urge to touch, and pauses the documentary, and switches over the baseball while Reid sleeps. By the time he stirs and sits up, it's late and dark and the game is coming to a close.

"Hey." Gentle, steadying. "You okay? Want some water? More soup?"

Reid's forehead is scrunched up like he has a headache, or maybe he's still just half-asleep and confused. "I— yeah. Okay."

A little ambiguous, but Derek gets the water and soup anyway. Comes back and sets everything down on the coffee table. Sits back down.

Reid's weight lands against him, unexpected. "You're—" Deliberate, like he's been working on the sentence the whole time Derek's been gone. "—a good friend." Slurred with medicine and sleep. "I didn't have any friends." Matter-of-fact, but it breaks Derek's heart in fucking two. "And then—" he gestures uncoordinatedly, one hand still tangled in the blankets. "Now I do." Spencer's eyes fill with sudden tears, but none spill. "You and JJ and Garcia and just—" He shakes his head against Derek's shoulder. "Thank you."

 _Fuck._ Derek says nothing, and forces himself to breathe, to steady himself against the wave of _Reid,_ uninhibited, like in a dream. A mirror image of the dreams he's had for years, the ones that echo on waking, the ones he tries to scrub away. What's that thing Reid talks about? The multiverse? Maybe he got lost somewhere in the multiverse. Ended up in the wrong damn place.

Well— if this is the reality he's stuck in, at least there's some comfort in getting his answer without asking the question, without baring his heart. Doesn't count as rejection if you never really asked. ( _What if—_ his mind whispers. And, _You never really asked—_ ) If everything's being packed away neatly into boxes, he can shut that one up tight, throw water on the whole thing, put out the burning coals. It's better that way. Right?

He takes a deep breath, and wraps an arm around Spencer's shoulders, and smiles, genuine but carefully controlled. "Damn right you've got us, kid."

Spencer falls asleep against him with half of his soup left in the bowl, and Derek prods him to go to bed at midnight, and lays in his own bed, again, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

Resignation, he decides, feels a little bit like peace.

. . .

He makes pancakes in the morning, because why the hell not, and Garcia comes over, bright-light exuberance and sharp observation. Reid's groggy and day-three-of-a-cold miserable, and Penelope fusses over him like a mother hen. Spencer leans into it in a way that takes Derek's breath away— vulnerable and wanting, letting himself soak it in. He can't figure out who he's looking at, sometimes.

When Reid steps out of the room, Garcia corners him. Stares him down.

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit you're fine. What's going on?"

"I just... figured some stuff out, that's all." He can't meet her eyes.

She's bursting with suspicion and curiosity, but Reid's in the next room and there's no time. She shakes her head and puts her arms around him, close and warm and pulsing with life, holding on for all she's worth. He hugs her back, tight and meaningful. She whispers, "You owe me a conversation," and he nods.

He goes back to the stove and flips a pancake in the pan with a flick of his wrist, just to show off. Garcia squeals with delight. Reid starts to laugh and breaks off coughing. Garcia pours him some more orange juice and he lets her rub his back. Derek dishes out the pancakes like he's dealing at cards. Play-fights with Garcia for the syrup. Runs a hand through Reid's hair to reassure himself of what he already knows, that the fever's not there. Spencer leans into the touch and the coals don't flare and he splints his heart like a broken bone with the beauty of all of _this,_ and wraps the cotton wool tight, and goes on.

. . .  
. . .


End file.
